THIRTY-FOUR

Francesca

March 25, 1944

Francesca remained at the window, staring out, listening to Matteo’s stifled breathing.

It was the end of everything. She swallowed the pain in her throat but stayed perfectly still. Silver light fell over the rooftops, spreading from the convent window, cathedral domes, and bell towers, all jumbled under a scatter of stars. She couldn’t imagine moving her feet from where they were planted, ever again. Germany had just invaded Hungary, yet another defeat. The Allies were no farther up the peninsula, and no closer to Rome. Giacomo was gone, a dead boy haunted her thoughts, and Matteo was on his last breath. There was no reason to continue on.

A sob rose in her chest, and she smothered it, glancing back at Lucia and Matteo. Lucia had shifted to sit on the edge of the narrow bed. She held Matteo in her lap, her gaze unwavering. They were as still as the marble statues littering Rome, an echo of the Pietà. Lucia as Mother Mary, cradling her conquered son.

Francesca turned back to the window, overwhelmed by sorrow. She’d come to love the little boy, to see in him a reason to hope. There was a flicker in his eye when he smiled. And his giggle reminded her of Giacomo, years ago. When she’d imagined freedom lately, she imagined Matteo: a boy walking along the Tiber in the sunshine, free to laugh, free to grow up. Perhaps Lucia would buy him a gelato, and perhaps Francesca would walk with them. She’d tell Matteo a story about dragons and knights and courage, and when he ran in the wind, she would know he had a future. That, for the first time in her life, Italy’s sons might grow old.

But now none of that would happen. And it was her fault. She wiped her stinging eyes. If Lucia had never met Francesca, the woman would still be safe in her house, unaware of her long-lost husband, uninvolved in the partisan war. If Lucia hadn’t met her, Carlo wouldn’t have been at her house that fateful night. He might still be alive. And maybe, if Lucia hadn’t fought the occupiers, she would have access to a German doctor to save her child now. And why not? Was this better, this despair? Had they changed anything by following their own compasses? All they’d done, in their long fight, was lose anything they had left.

She sucked in her lips and stared out at the rooftops, tipping from shadow to light. Somewhere beyond them, hundreds of Italy’s sons were newly dead. Francesca had trekked Rome all day, seeking contacts and asking questions, piecing together everything anyone knew. She’d learned enough to picture it. Men and boys were herded from prisons onto trucks, driven from the city they’d fought for, and maneuvered into caves, never to be seen again. And there were so many who’d fallen before them; the country was littered with ghosts. There was the ghetto, once full of families, now empty. And the Jews of other cities—had they met the same fate? And all the British and American sons, lost in the craggy south, who would never return to their mothers. She thought of Giacomo, her private tragedy, and tried to multiply the loss. The pain of it all was unfathomable.

What it all boiled down to, her whole life encapsulated, became clear: The enemy would always win. Ordinary people could resist, but in the end, the enemy had more fighters, bigger guns, fewer scruples. They would rip fathers from their families, rake lovers off the streets, empty neighborhoods of whomever they deemed undesirable. They would force boys to march, to load rifles, to learn how to shoot before they’d lost all their baby teeth. They would start wars, occupy cities, and starve the people until their children fell sick. And when the people fought back?

Murder.

Bells began to ring across the city, echoing from one church tower to the next, gaining momentum until the air over Rome reached a crescendo. It was midnight. When the bells ceased, the rumble of artillery replaced them, coursing along the horizon.

A voice from another star-strewn night murmured in her ear. Marry me, Giacomo had whispered. It seemed so long ago. Marry me tomorrow. Her eyes darted from star to star, tears cooling her cheeks. Why hadn’t she said yes? She’d been foolish, all along. She should have married the only man she’d ever love, the moment he asked. She should have kept them both safe when the Nazis came. A bomb fell somewhere in the distance, fracturing the night, and for the first time since the war had come to Rome, Francesca couldn’t imagine its end. For months, the city had lived on false hope. The Allies are just around the corner, people had whispered. Our liberators are marching north. Soon, soon, the city would be free.

What people had overlooked, in their desperation, was that there was always more to lose. She saw the boy’s head in the gutter, rolling away from its body, and swallowed a surge of bile. Throat burning, she glanced at Lucia and Matteo.

What people had overlooked, all along, was that evil could win.